If I’ll be forgot Jerusalem, let the dawn forget my name,
let the olive wind not trace me, let the stones deny my feet.
But still—still—my blood will echo in your alleys,
a quiet psalm of dust and light,
a child’s laugh caught in the shouts of markets,
a mother’s lullaby braided into iron gates.
If memory fails, let the sky keep its promise—
one white bird circling the Dome,
carrying my song in its beak,
dropping it like a seed into the cracks of the Wall,
so Jerusalem remembers me
even when I forget myself.